The Twentieth Wife (26 page)

Mehrunnisa turned to the courtyard as trumpets blared Prince Salim’s signature tune. He rode in on a white horse and went up to the imperial throne. When he was directly under the Emperor, Salim bowed from the saddle. All the ladies craned their necks to look at the prince.

“What is Salim’s elephant’s name?” Ruqayya demanded in a loud voice.

“Giranbar, your Majesty.” Both Mehrunnisa and Princess Jagat Gosini spoke at the same time. The princess’s eyes flickered briefly to Mehrunnisa; then Jagat Gosini turned away with a flush as Ruqayya pointedly raised an imperious eyebrow at her.

“Ah, Giranbar,” Ruqayya said. “I remember seeing the elephant at the stables a few weeks ago. He is big and strong. Salim says he eats ten kilos of sugarcane each day. He will surely win the fight. He has not lost yet, you know.”

“Yes, your Majesty, but Prince Khusrau’s elephant, Apurva, is also unbeaten,” Mehrunnisa said.

“No, no,” the Empress said, shaking her head stubbornly, “Giranbar must win. Apurva will lose today.”

Mehrunnisa looked thoughtfully at the back of Ruqayya’s head. For some reason, the court, the commoners, and the imperial
zenana
all expected that the outcome of this fight would determine who was the rightful heir to the throne. And Ruqayya wanted Salim to win. It was what Akbar wanted—and so, despite the fact that Jagat Gosini would usurp her position in the imperial
zenana
if Salim came to the throne, that was what Ruqayya wanted. These last two months had been slow and uncomfortable. They were all waiting for something. Waiting for Akbar’s death. Waiting to see
who would win the throne. Waiting—yet not wanting the Emperor to die, for either possibility seemed frightening.

The heat did not help, Mehrunnisa thought, as she stared out of the screen. Outside it was bright. Inside, where she stood, it was cool, dark, and stifling. A sudden pain jabbed her lower back, and she put a hand to it.
Not again.
It was early yet, so she had not told Ruqayya, had not wanted to ask for permission to sit, though her body ached for that rest. The pain returned: one short stab where her spine met her hips. She leaned against a nearby pillar, feeling as though she would suffocate, trying to appear normal, trying not to draw attention. For if any woman looked at her she would know what Mehrunnisa was going through.

Mehrunnisa caught her breath and waited for the pain to reappear. It did not. She stood upright again before Ruqayya should turn to demand why she was lounging about. But Mehrunnisa did not notice Princess Jagat Gosini look sharply in her direction, once, twice, then a third time, before swinging her head back to the sound of the trumpets that heralded Prince Khusrau’s arrival. In those brief looks, Jagat Gosini had seen the small swelling of Mehrunnisa’s belly, had seen her face drain of color, had watched her falter on her feet.

“Another one. Good.” Jagat Gosini said this so softly that even her slaves did not hear her. She looked through the screen at the prince.

Prince Khusrau rode up to the Emperor, dismounted, and bowed. Akbar nodded only briefly to him, and the prince turned away, his face red but determined. Then, with a stiff bow to Salim, Khusrau rode over to the other side and reined in his horse.

A loud roar went up from the crowd as the two elephants were led in by their mahouts. Mehrunnisa saw Prince Salim glance at Apurva, then turn worriedly to Mahabat Khan, who stood near him. She wanted to tell him to wipe away the worry lines; Apurva looked big and fierce, but Giranbar looked more so. It would be an
exciting fight. The crowd hushed into silence as the referee of the fight, clad in red and gold livery, rode up to the imperial balcony.

“Your Majesty, we await your signal.”

Akbar turned to Khurram. “Would you like to give the signal, Khurram?”

“Yes, Dadaji,” Khurram replied eagerly. Then, turning to the referee, he said, “Where is the reserve?”

“He is being led in, your Highness,” the man replied. Just then, the Emperor’s elephant, Rantamhan, was brought into the enclosure. The rules of the elephant fight dictated, somewhat loosely and mostly based on the Emperor’s whim, that if the fight was won too easily by one elephant, then the reserve would come to the assistance of the loser of the fight. Rantamhan was the reserve elephant, not as big as either Apurva or Giranbar, but with enough battle scars to prove his fighting prowess.

“Let the fight begin!” Khurram shouted.

The crowd roared with delight. Salim and Khusrau edged their horses closer. Giranbar and Apurva were led to the center of the courtyard and faced each other across a low mud wall, built that morning for this purpose.

The trumpets blew, and the mahouts, specially trained in the fight, urged the elephants forward. The two beasts rushed through the mud wall, clashing into each other with a deep thud. They retreated, and then, prodded by the mahouts, turned to clash again. Soon, Khusrau’s Apurva was dizzy and teetering from the hits. Immediately, Akbar’s elephant was urged into the fray.

Salim’s noblemen, seeing Rantamhan entering the arena, jumped up and down in anger. They whooped out “No help to Apurva” and threw sticks, stones, and anything they could find at the elephant to dissuade it. One of the stones hit Rantamhan’s mahout, who began to bleed from the head.

Chaos reigned over the entire courtyard as the men howled
curses and threats at Rantamhan. Khusrau broke away from the group around the elephants and rode up wildly to Akbar’s throne.

“Your Majesty, please tell the prince’s men to desist from interfering. Apurva has a right to be helped by Rantamhan,” he cried, his face twisted with anger.

Akbar turned to Prince Khurram. “Go to your father and tell him to restrain his attendants, or we shall stop the fight and appropriate all the elephants.”

“At once, your Majesty.” Khurram jumped down from the pavilion and ran into the field.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Khusrau turned his horse to leave.

“One minute, Khusrau,” Akbar called out. When the prince was facing him again, Akbar beckoned him closer.

“Remember your position in court, Khusrau. You are a royal prince. It is highly unbecoming to ride up and complain about your father like this. Where is your respect for your elders?”

Khusrau flushed. “I apologize, your Majesty.”

“As you must. Go now, and don’t let us see you until you have learned your manners.” The Emperor stared straight ahead.

Mehrunnisa saw Khusrau glance around to see who had been listening to his exchange with the Emperor, then his neck stiffened as he looked toward the
zenana.
What the harem knew, the whole city—no, the empire—would know by tomorrow. Khusrau turned his horse around savagely and galloped to his attendants.

When Khurram reached his father with the Emperor’s message, Salim was trying to control his attendants. But the men were too excited and would not stop. By this time, the entire courtyard was noisy and resounding with the words “No help to Apurva.” The commoners joined in the fray, yelling, screaming, fighting with each other, and generally enjoying themselves. No one watched the elephant fight.

An enraged Giranbar first chased Khusrau’s elephant Apurva away, and then turned on Rantamhan, the royal interloper. Rantamhan, no
match for Salim’s elephant, fled to the banks of the Yamuna. There, seeing that Giranbar, now uncontrolled by his mahout, was still following, he jumped into the river. Finally, after an hour, attendants were able to separate the elephants by bringing boats between them and stopping the enraged Giranbar.

Long before this, Mehrunnisa saw the Emperor rise from his throne and leave for his apartments, sick and disgusted with the public display of hatred between his son and his grandson.

As Akbar left, the women in the
zenana
enclosure rushed to the doors. One woman pushed Mehrunnisa in her haste. She tripped and then steadied herself, forcing a smile in response to the apology. A sudden pain surged through her body. Mehrunnisa walked back to the palaces, her back stooped from the pain, cramps imprisoning her belly. And she waited for the blood to come again.

•   •   •

T
HE UNHAPPY
E
MPEROR
lay in bed that night with a raging fever, his heart heavy at the enmity between Salim and Khusrau. If the rift was allowed to continue, civil war would break out in his cherished empire—an empire he had spent forty-nine years building. There was no question of Khusrau ascending the throne; he was too young, and it would be dangerous to leave the empire in the care of a regency. Salim was the rightful heir to the throne, and Akbar did not want to meddle with the laws of succession.

But the Emperor’s intentions would have to wait. For Akbar was critically ill, falling into bouts of delirium and slipping in and out of consciousness. The royal physicians were helpless, and it was clear to everyone that the end was near.

•   •   •

A
FEW DAYS
passed. Prince Salim, at his palace at Agra, a few miles downstream from the royal fort, rejoiced in his victory over Khusrau. It was sign from the heavens, he thought. He would be Emperor of Mughal India. The words reverberated in his mind like
a delicious song not yet worn out. But it was a happiness tempered by sorrow, for Akbar was on his deathbed. Salim went more often now to see the Emperor. At first, Ruqayya and the other ladies of the harem were distrustful of the visits. They watched keen-eyed for signs of fatigue in Akbar, for irritation at his son’s presence. Slowly, they grew less suspicious. Salim sat for hours by his father’s beside, reading to him when he wanted that, being there when his eyes opened from a fitful sleep, returning to his palace late at night after the Emperor had bade him go. “Do not worry about Khusrau,” Akbar said to him one afternoon. “I will not, your Majesty,” Salim replied, determined that he wouldn’t. The elephant fight had had its repercussions. He had no doubt that he would win the crown. What could Khusrau do, after all?

But Salim underestimated both his son and his son’s associates. While the prince spent time at the Emperor’s palace, Khusrau’s followers began to plan in earnest.

Mirza Aziz Koka, as Khan Azam, or First Lord of the realm, was made acting vice-regent of the empire during Akbar’s illness. To ensure his son-in-law’s position, Mirza Koka secretly dismissed Akbar’s old retainers and filled the posts in and around the fort with his own men. But Khusrau was still insecure.

“Is this enough?” he asked his father-in-law, worry written over his young forehead. “My father commands a large army. He will fight us.”

“There is one other thing we could do,” Mirza Koka said slowly. “We could capture the prince on his next visit to the Emperor. That way, we will face no danger from Prince Salim’s army.”

Khusrau clapped his hands in delight. “That is a wonderful plan, Mirza Koka. But,” the glee faded from his face, “I don’t want my father killed. He won’t be in any danger, will he?”

“No, your Highness,” Koka said reassuringly. “We will simply imprison him until you are crowned Emperor.”

Khusrau nodded. “Good.”

Mirza Koka watched him thoughtfully. Did the prince really think he could hold the crown while his father was still alive? He would have to arrange a small accident while Salim was in prison. Then the crown would be theirs forever.

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT DAY
, just as Salim was about to disembark from his royal barge on a visit to the Emperor, a young man came running out of the fort.

“Your Highness, your Highness, please turn back. There is great danger here.”

Mahabat Khan immediately pulled Salim back into the boat and, shielding him with his body, asked the man, “What danger? Speak up.”

“Mirza Koka plans to capture and imprison you within the fort, your Highness,” the man gasped, out of breath. “He has dismissed all of the Emperor’s servants. The fort is filled with supporters of Prince Khusrau.”

As he finished speaking an arrow whizzed past Mahabat Khan’s ear. The man fell to the ground, clutching his bloody arm.

Mahabat pushed Salim down and covered him with his own body. He yelled to the boatmen, and they hurriedly pushed away from the pier. The prince forced Mahabat aside and looked over the rim of the boat. He saw the archer, now visible over the ramparts of the fort, raise his bow and take deliberate aim at the informant on the ground. Then Mahabat shoved him to the floor of the boat again, and they rowed back to Salim’s palace. There, Mahabat called for the guards and escorted Salim inside.

•   •   •

S
ALIM WALKED INTO
his apartments on trembling legs, his mouth dry. An attempt had been made on his life by his own son. How could Khusrau stoop to such a level? Was the crown worth such disloyalty?
For a brief moment, guilt washed over him. He, Salim, had once wanted the throne with the same intensity as Khusrau. In fact, he still wanted it—only now it was rightfully his. But Khusrau’s actions defied all reason. To kill his father in cold blood, in the open, in the daylight—how would he have justified Salim’s death to the empire?

“Bring me some wine,” he roared at a passing servant.

The servant scurried off.

Salim looked up and saw Jagat Gosini. She bowed to her husband. “You are back early, your Highness. I hope his Majesty is keeping well.”

“There has been a plot to capture me. I barely escaped with my life,” Salim said.

A frown crossed the princess’s face. “By whom? Who would dare plot on your life?”

“Khusrau,” Salim said wearily as he sat down on a divan.

The servant appeared, bearing a large silver tray with a wine flask and goblets. Jagat Gosini waited quietly while Salim drank his wine. She was troubled. If Khusrau had the arrogance to attempt to capture his own father, what would he try to do to Khurram? Her son was still at the fort in Agra. Ordinarily the Padshah Begam Ruqayya would have looked after him—this much Jagat Gosini admitted only in her private thoughts—but with the Emperor ill, all of the Empress’s attention was centered on him.

“Your Highness, Khurram is with the Emperor. Do you think . . .” She hesitated. “Do you think he is safe there?”